My Brother Is An Idiot
by PrincessNala
Summary: In simple terms? John Watson and Sherlock Holmes are in love with each other. Only the infuriating fact of the matter is that neither man has a clue of the other's feelings. And I, for one, am sick to death of their ignorance. Sherlock/John
1. My Brother Is An Idiot

**Ok everyone, here is option 4 you chose back in Liability for me to do – A multi-chaptered fic with Mycroft intervening to get John and Sherlock together, setting John up on an unusual date that gives us a whole heap of Jealous!Sherlock. Most of you wanted this from me, so here it is!**

**Y'know, when I started this fic, I hadn't realised how difficult it was for me to write in the POV of Mycroft Holmes. And then I went and made it even more difficult for myself by deciding to do this fic in 1st person rather than my usual 3rd. But ah well, it wasn't working the way I wanted it to in 3rd, so I took a chance and I'm trying something new. Hope it works, I have high hopes for this fic ^^**

**The POV will change every chapter, I think, switching between Mycroft, John and Sherlock (and maybe even Lestrade somewhere along the line). Eek, writing Sherlock in 1st person's really gonna box my brain! But I shall try :)**

**Pairings! – Eventual Sherlock/John (obviously, would I write anything else? Haha XD ), some pretend John/OC, and even a smidgen of Mycroft/Lestrade later on too (I'm really starting to warm to this pairing, which rather surprised me ^^ )**

**Just want to say a huge thank you to the lovely Elvendork. Infinity for looking this through for me and sorting out my tenses lol, I'm so grateful! You're a star, THANK YOU!**

**Ok, read on and review for me, thanks!**

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Prologue: My Brother Is An Idiot.

Mycroft's POV:

Sherlock Holmes is a genius. That much is an undisputed fact. His talents of deduction are quite literally a phenomenon in their own right, as is his ability to pick out the tiniest seemingly insignificant details and piece together an impossible mystery in his head with such unbelievable speed. He can tell you everything about a person from a single glance, reading their background, character flaws and their deepest darkest secrets from something as ridiculous as a certain type of stain on their shirt collar. His brilliance knows no bounds, much like the man himself.

But, unfortunately, I have a slightly different view of the wonder that is Sherlock Holmes than everyone else around him.

Because, in my opinion, my brother is an absolute idiot. And I mean that in the fondest sense of the word. Really, for a man with such unquestionable intelligence, he can be so incredibly clueless at times. But I don't mean in _mind_, no, God no, don't be absurd, rather in _heart_. Granted, he's convinced himself that he doesn't actually have a heart, but as gifted a liar as my younger brother may be, there are just some things that not even he can hide behind that imperious demeanour of his. I can see through a lot more of Sherlock than I let on, actually. He's changed over the past six months, no doubt about it. And it's all because of one man, one ordinary unspectacular ex-army doctor who goes by the name of John Watson.

I'd had my suspicions at first. I do so worry about Sherlock, and it was only natural for me to be concerned about how quickly and easily this stranger had limped his way into my brother's life. John Watson had seemed about as pedestrian as they come: A thirty-nine year old white male, roughly five foot seven and approximately ten stone ten (give or take a few pounds), with mousy hair somewhere halfway between blond and brown, and tawny-coloured eyes. Ex-military, served in Afghanistan before being invalided home after taking a dreadful gunshot wound to the left shoulder, developing soon after a psychosomatic limp and an uncontrollably shaky hand that his dim-witted therapist automatically labelled as being PTSD. My own initial impressions of the man had admittedly been deceiving. It wasn't until I arranged that first little meeting with him that I realised that beneath those deceptive knitted jumpers was a battle-hardened man with an insatiable thirst for adventure and danger, with such fierce bravery and loyalty that I have to admit I was very impressed by. There was definitely more to John Watson than originally met the eye.

Sherlock had seen this, of course he had. He wouldn't be sharing a flat with him if he hadn't, nor would he continue to drag the ex-army medic practically everywhere with him, be it to various crime scenes or on high-speed rooftop pursuits across half of London. Any other normal man wouldn't stand for it, wouldn't be able to put up with the many eccentricities of Sherlock Holmes that had driven away so many people in the past… but John Watson, now, he was different. He never failed to be right there by Sherlock's side no matter what harebrained scheme my brother had dropped them in. I'd hate to say it, but Sherlock probably would've been killed ten times over by now if John Watson hadn't been there at the right moment to save his sorry behind just in the nick of time. Take, for instance, the very first case they solved together, in which my brother would've taken that damn suicide pill if Dr Watson hadn't put a bullet in that odious little cab driver through the opposite window, and spared Sherlock from his own stupidity. I never did thank the good doctor for that. But then again, no one is supposed to know exactly who was responsible for killing the cabbie. It was their little secret, and I've gladly kept it that way.

And now, six months down the line, it's painfully obvious that John Watson is the best thing that ever happened to Sherlock Holmes, and vice versa.

And that isn't the _only_ painfully obvious thing about the two of them. But strangely, for all its obviousness, both men are totally blind to what is happening right underneath their noses. For John, maybe I could understand, (no offence intended, of course), but for Sherlock Holmes to miss something so vital and _blatant_ that is quite literally staring him in the face twenty-four seven is just… well, it's just horrifying, really. Though how on earth either could be so oblivious is completely beyond me, the tension must be downright unbearable by now.

In simple terms? John Watson and Sherlock Holmes are in love with each other. Only the infuriating fact of the matter is that neither man has a clue of the other's feelings, so they continue to dance around each other in an ever-growing sea of sexual tension, pretending that just friendship is good enough for them. And I, for one, am sick to death of their ignorance.

I've been planning my interference into correcting the state of their non-existent lovelife for a while now, but I've never really gotten around to it. Not because I've been kept busy with my work within the British Government, but rather because I had hoped that realisation would eventually strike when the collective level of lust between them reached boiling point. Apparently I was giving them both too much credit when I thought that. For one, Sherlock has the emotional range of a teaspoon and it would take something pretty spectacular to make him admit any form of feeling at all, and for two, John Watson didn't seem to be getting on well with the new concept of falling in love with a member of the same sex. I can safely say that bringing them together will probably be one of the greatest challenges in my entire life. Dealing with my younger brother has never been easy, but then again, that's all part of the fun for me.

But how to do it, though… Hmm, now that is the question. Subtlety is not really my strong point, but this needs to be handled with the utmost discretion. Neither Sherlock nor John would take too kindly with my meddling in their business when I have no real right to. They will thank me in the end, naturally, but we've got a long way to go until we get to that point. But yes, perhaps it is time for me to take matters into my own hands.

No one knows my brother better than I do, so that is a welcomed advantage. Because I know that beneath all those layers of carefully constructed control, there is a seething river of repressed emotion that he considers pointless and unnecessary, so he locks it away from himself and the rest of the world. Out of sight, out of mind, as the saying goes. I've only seen him embrace some of that intense feeling a handful of times in his life, the most recent being at St Bartholomew's hospital after that fiasco at the swimming pool with Jim Moriarty. Sherlock hadn't taken too lightly to being told that he had to stay in his hospital bed and couldn't see John Watson until the next morning. The concussion hadn't really helped his mood at the time either. He was absolutely intolerable those first few days of his recovery, believe me. More so than usual, in fact. If that was even possible.

Honestly, how John can stand to put up with Sherlock Holmes all day every day is actually awe-inspiring. Love truly is blind, I think. Either that or Dr Watson has the patience and tolerance of some kind of a Saint. I can't help but feel sorry for him sometimes, but to be fair, it's entirely his own fault for sticking around. What a commendable and unwise thing to do.

I know for a fact that I'm not the only person who has noticed something between them. Granted, I'm the only one to fully understand just how deep that 'something' truly runs, and it was really a matter of guesswork and rumours circulating around from their few acquaintances. There was a poll that had been running for a while now at the police station, with bets being placed on how long it would take for one of them to jump the other, and who exactly would break first. Last time I checked, the tally was two-to-one in John's favour, although Detective Inspector Lestrade had placed a hefty bet on Sherlock being the first to get a clue and throw the ex-army medic down on the nearest available surface. _Ugh_, now that was a horrifying thought. I've seen many things in my life, but none so terrible or psychologically damaging than the mental image of my brother and his flatmate fucking like animals. I think maybe I might come to regret having so much surveillance on their flat at some point in the near future.

But even so, something has to be done about those two. I'm determined to push them together somehow, to make Sherlock open up a little and John to accept his newfound taste in the same sex (or rather, one _particular person_ of the same sex). Maybe I should just focus on one of them for the time being… play the one against the other, so to speak. Hmm, the idea has its merits. I happen to be extremely talented at manipulating people, so that part shouldn't be too challenging for me.

Perhaps… oh. _Oh_. Now that's brilliant. Suppose John was to meet someone? But not a woman, oh no… suppose he met a _man?_ Sherlock hadn't been too fussed over that Sarah woman (with good reason, because she hadn't lasted long enough to be considered a threat), but if John were to start dating a man… Well, Sherlock never did like sharing his toys, and his jealousy and possessiveness as a child was quite something to behold. None of that has dissipated in adulthood, I can assure you, it is just marginally better hidden nowadays. Now if the sight of his beloved ex-army doctor in the arms of another male doesn't make him sit up and take action, then I don't know _what_ will.

And I've already got the perfect candidate in mind for the task of posing as John Watson's love interest. Ah, I'm really going to enjoy this! But I think I need to let Dr Watson in on this little plot of mine before I set it in motion, since I highly doubt he's going to fall head over heels in love with the first homosexual man who catches his eye when he's so hopelessly smitten with my brother and currently in denial about his sexual preferences. Time for me to arrange another little meeting with him then, I think. He probably won't like my plan very much, but I'm willing to do whatever it takes. I'm going to make John Watson and Sherlock Holmes realise their mutual feelings for each other if it damn well kills me.

Which, knowing my infantile brother, it undoubtedly will.

God help me.

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**This is a little short, but that's because it's just the prologue ^^ The next chapters will definitely be longer, I'll be aiming for between 2000-4000 words :D**

**Dunno how many chapters this is going to be, and updates will be pretty much whenever I can dig myself out of this shitload of college-work I'm currently buried in, not to mention the fact that I'm going to be working on a continuation/sequel to my fic When We Sleep at the same time, so updates will be anything but regular :(**

**Possible future chapters might get a little graphic, but then again, knowing me, maybe not haha. We shall see.**

**So, what d'you think so far? Review for me and let me know if you like it please, I'd really appreciate it. :)**


	2. I Know What You Did Last Thursday

**Wow, seriously, I cant believe just how great a response this fic has already recieved from just one tiny prologue! Twenty-three reviews already? I'm blown away, I really am, wow guys, I'm honoured you all like this so much! :) Just hope the rest lives up to your expectations now sheesh, no pressure there O.o**

**Oh, and to all those who recognised the Harry Potter 'emotional range of a teaspoon' quote, yeah I put it there deliberately lol seemed like a very Mycroft thing to say XD**

**Yeah, my word limit of between 2000-4000 words has already failed epically, and this is only the first chapter! Bloody typical haha :)**

**I still don't own Sherlock or any of it's characters, so no suing.**

**Warnings for this chapter? Um, well there's some swearing, a couple of mentions of masturbation, and two instances of a sexily soaked Sherlock Holmes. What more do you need? Lmao!**

**A huge thank you once again to the brilliant Elvendork. Infinity! The Tense Correction Queen! Thank you dear! ^^**

**Anyways, read on and review for me, thanks!**

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Chapter 1: I Know What You Did Last Thursday.

John's POV:

When that familiar black unmarked car pulled up alongside me on the kerb, I wasn't the tiniest bit surprised. Over these past six months, I've pretty much gotten used to being kidnapped by Mycroft Holmes every now and then, usually for a lengthy chat over tea and biscuits in some remote location. About ninety-five percent of the time those 'lengthy chats' were basically about Sherlock, such as Mycroft trying to get me to persuade his stubborn younger brother to take some kind of Government case he's ignoring, or just saying how I need to make sure Sherlock eats or sleeps more than he is doing. Huh, like he actually thinks that me telling my notoriously difficult flatmate that instead of doing it himself will make any difference. I know for a fact it won't.

It really does annoy me, though. Being abducted like this, I mean. Was it honestly too much to ask for a text or a phone call or something? Maybe give me a little warning beforehand? Oh no, of course not, because that's not the way Mycroft works. He just sends for you regardless of what you're doing and expects you to just drop everything and get in the car, and you can't exactly refuse. Believe me, I know. I've tried. Several times, in fact. But it's completely pointless, because you don't really have much of a choice. I might've accepted that, but it doesn't mean I'm happy about it.

And his timing really couldn't have been any worse today. After spending the last seven hours working at the clinic and covering for someone who was off sick, which meant I had to see to their patients as well as my own, I'd been so looking forward to just going home to 221B Baker Street and putting my feet up, and maybe even a hot shower to ease my aching muscles and a well-deserved cup of tea in front of the telly. And then Mycroft Holmes turns up, and my plans of a relaxing evening get shot straight to hell. Bloody brilliant.

Not that my evening would've been all that relaxing anyway, not when I've got Sherlock Holmes for a flatmate. He would've probably dragged me away with him on his latest case the second I walked through that door, so maybe Mycroft's doing me a favour with this. Hmm. Nah, I don't think so. Sometimes dealing with the elder Holmes brother is so much more challenging than dealing with the younger, just because I'm sort of getting used to Sherlock and his strangely brilliant (or brilliantly strange) ways now, whereas Mycroft Holmes is still as mysterious and unknown to me as the first day we met. He still unnerves me a little, too. Not that I'd ever admit that to anyone, God no.

So it's safe to say that right now I'm exhausted and irritable, and totally not looking forward to this little get-together at all. Mycroft's assistant Anthea (or whatever her name really is) has barely said two words to me throughout this entire journey to God only knows where, but then again, I'd stopped trying to get a decent conversation out of her months ago. All she did when I climbed into the car beside her was glance over the top of her beloved Blackberry and flash me a small almost apologetic smile before she turned her attention back to the tiny screen again. I didn't even bother asking where we were going. I knew she wouldn't tell me. She never does.

When the car eventually slows to a stop, I glance out of the tinted window expecting to see yet another abandoned warehouse in the middle of nowhere (one of Mycroft's favourite places for holding these 'meetings' of ours), but instead I find myself staring at an ordinary nondescript block of flats. Almost straight away I'm both confused and suspicious, but I don't have time to even _think_ about asking Anthea what's going on because she's already leaning across me and opening the door, getting out before me with an amazing amount of grace for someone in a skirt that figure-hugging. Unable to do anything else, I follow her out with a lot less grace, but to be honest I really couldn't care less. My leg is starting to hurt a bit too, but it's easy enough to ignore. I always ignore it now. I'm not going to let my little memento from Jim Moriarty slow me down in any way, not for a second. Especially not in front of Mycroft Holmes.

"Where are we?" I ask, curiosity getting the better of me. That's always been a weakness of mine, I've got to admit. But then again, I know I've got worse weaknesses than that.

Anthea gives me another cryptic little smile as she flicks her long brown tresses casually back over her shoulder, starting to make her way up the few steps that lead to the ground floor flat, obviously intending for me to follow her. And I do trail along after her with a small sigh of resignation, now actually dreading what Mycroft Holmes has waiting in store for me in this place. Oh, what does he want this time? I've absolutely idea, but I've already got a sneaking suspicion that I'm probably not going to like it very much. Call it soldier's intuition, but there is a tiny niggling feeling in the back of mind telling me that Mycroft is about to make an already crap day even worse for me. God help me.

I don't know exactly what I was expecting to find in the flat, but for some reason the sight of Mycroft Holmes sat primly in a faded blue armchair with his umbrella propped against the chair arm beside him and a cup of tea held delicately in his long-fingered hands makes me halt in my tracks in the doorway, dithering there like a moron as the elder Holmes brother looks up and regards me calmly over the rim of his steaming cup, his light blue eyes scarily bright in the sunlight streaming through the window opposite.

"Ah, Dr Watson." Mycroft greets me with a congenial nod of his head, gesturing with his free hand to another empty armchair at the other end of the coffee table, "Do come in and take a seat. Tea?"

"This better be important, Mycroft." I sigh as I reluctantly approach him, barely even noticing that Anthea has already turned away and left, shutting the door smartly behind her. The corners of Mycroft's lips quirk upwards into a brief almost self-satisfied smile, his relation to Sherlock only far too obvious with that tiny expression. That not-quite-a-smile smile is definitely a Holmes family trait, no doubt about it.

"Oh, it is, I assure you." The elder Holmes brother replies. I plonk myself heavily down into the intended seat across from him, glad to finally sit down and make myself at least remotely comfortable for the time being, but still not letting myself fully relax in front of this man. Sherlock once told me that Mycroft was the most dangerous man I could ever meet. He doesn't really seem like it right now, or even most of the time, but then again, appearances can be so treacherously deceptive.

I'm about to demand exactly why I'm here (politely, of course. I'll be damned before I invoke the wrath of a Holmes. I might not be a genius like them, but even I'm not _that_ stupid. Or suicidal.), when a man appears in the doorway just behind Mycroft's armchair. Mycroft doesn't react, just sips at his tea nonchalantly, so I'm guessing this unknown person actually works for him, or owns this flat the elder Holmes has commandeered just to talk to me. The stranger is tall and lean with a tousled crop of light brown hair, dressed casually in faded denim jeans and a plain white t-shirt, a cup of steaming tea held carefully out in front of him as he walks into the living room, easily manoeuvring his way around the furniture to reach us.

He stops beside the coffee table and I know I'm staring up at him in confusion at this whole situation in general, but the man just gives me an easy smile and offers the cup in his hand down to me without a single word. He's wearing a pair of glasses with thin rectangular black frames, and behind them his eye-colour is a curious earthy combination of mossy green and hazel, magnified slightly by the lenses. His jaw is shadowed with a thin layer of stubble that gives his face quite a rugged down-to-earth look, and there are a fair few subtle laughter lines crinkling around the corners of his eyes and lips. He must be a couple of years younger than me at least, but not by much.

"Thanks." I say to him with a small nod of gratitude as I take the drink from him and cradle it in my hands, greedily breathing in the delicious relaxing scent of a proper English brew. His smile widens and he moves back. I almost miss the way he makes brief eye contact with Mycroft, then gives him the tiniest almost imperceptible incline of his head before he turns away and walks back off into the kitchen, and Mycroft sets his cup of tea down in front of him on the table as though the interruption never happened.

"So, John." Mycroft starts, folding his hands neatly on his knee, blinking freely at me, "How are you?"

I squint at him over the top of my mug as I take a sip, burning the tip of my tongue a little. Is he seriously trying to make small-talk with me? It's like he's completely forgotten that he's all but abducted me to get me here. But I know exactly what he's trying to do.

"I'm tired and I'm fed up, and I'd really like to get home some time today, so can we please hurry up and get this over with?"

Mycroft chuckles softly under his breath, reaching out with one hand to absently toy with the handle of his umbrella beside him. There's an odd delighted glint in his eyes that immediately sets me on edge, dread rising thick and fast in my stomach.

"Very well," The suited man says, tilting his head a little to the side as his light blue irises focus unwaveringly on my own tawny gaze, "Let's not mince words any longer, then. I know you are in love with my brother, Dr Watson."

It's just so bloody typical that I happen to take a deep drink from my cup just as he says that, and at the pure unexpected shock of his words, I inhale it instead and choke, flinging my hand up to my mouth as I cough and splutter to avoid spraying my mouthful of tea all over the dark-haired man opposite me. Mycroft just watches me with amusement as I thump myself on the chest to clear my airways enough to talk.

"I'm sorry, _what?_" I croak hoarsely, that last word coming out a bit more high pitched than I'd intended it to.

"Well, I'm assuming it's love, because it certainly seems that way. The sexual attraction, however, that isn't up for debate, because it really couldn't be any more nauseatingly obvious and undeniable."

I think my eyes are so wide now that they're in danger of popping out of my head. Out of all the things I expected Mycroft to say to me in this meeting, there was no way on earth I could've prepared myself to be confronted with _this_. But what makes it even worse is the fact that, in true Holmes fashion, he's hit the nail right on the head with that one. _Crap_.

I'm not going to lie here; I've always felt some kind of affection for Sherlock Holmes, right from that very first moment of meeting him in that lab at St Bart's. He'd just been so superior and mysterious that even whilst I was completely blown away by the unusual dark-haired man's inhuman powers of deduction, I couldn't help but feel fond of him. And that was only the start of my troubles, believe me.

Over the past six months, that fondness just continued to keep on growing and before I'd even realised what was happening, it was much too late. But then again, I didn't fully realise just how far gone I was until that _Goddamn_ case about three months ago. That'd been the fateful day when my previously dormant libido had well and truly woken up, seizing hold of me in its claws and just outright refusing to let go.

And it was all Sherlock's fault.

I'm not going to go into details, but all I'm going to say is that it'd been an outdoor crime scene and it had suddenly started raining while we were there, and because we'd been in such a rush to get there, both me and Sherlock had forgotten our coats (and were freezing our arses off too, since it was well into autumn by then). So yeah, we got absolutely drenched in the downpour, and I made the colossal mistake of looking over at Sherlock rather than hunting down an umbrella or something. That'd been the moment that changed everything for me.

Because there Sherlock Holmes had stood a few feet away, completely soaked through to the skin with tiny droplets of water sliding slick trails down his pale flesh and his sodden dark brown curls clinging to his sharp cheekbones, and his shirt… Oh God, his shirt… Well, it'd been thin and white when it was dry, but when wet, _Christ_, it turned almost impossibly see-through, and stuck to his chest like a second skin. He'd been cold too, so his… Whoa, no, stop it, don't even _think_ about going there again, John. I might've looked like a drowned rat in the rain, but Sherlock… Sherlock had looked damn near _sinful_.

And that's it, really. I'm attracted to another man, and that's the scariest thing I've ever experienced in my entire life. It's a total first for me, and the fact that it's my eccentric undoubtedly asexual flatmate I'm attracted to doesn't help matters either. But I'm not _gay_. I don't fancy all men… just Sherlock. So what does that make me? Sherlock-sexual? Bloody hell, I don't even think the great consulting detective himself could figure out my sexuality crisis. Well, he probably _could_, but there's no way on earth I'm going to let him know about my… _feelings_… for him. This is just something I have to figure out on my own, I guess.

That is, right up until Mycroft just dropped that little bombshell on me with all the subtlety of a kick in the crotch. Typical Holmes. No concept of tact whatsoever, just like his younger brother. But then again, sugarcoating things isn't exactly Mycroft's style.

"I've no idea what you're talking about." I lie, trying to sound as convincing as I possibly can, but it's all in vain. Why I thought I could lie to Mycroft Holmes and get away with it, I haven't a clue, but that one pointedly raised eyebrow tells me he's seen straight through me in a heartbeat.

"Please don't insult my intelligence, Dr Watson. I'm not stupid, nor am I blind, so don't think you can deny the truth when you know I can read you as easily as any book." He tells me seriously, his light eyes hardening a little in warning. I stare back at him stubbornly, not intimidated the slightest. I admit he unnerves me, but no way am I scared of him, and he knows that. My hands are as steady as they'll ever be.

Mycroft frowns almost imperceptibly for a split-second, looking as though he's just realised that whatever he had planned is going to be much harder than he first thought. I take that as a small victory on my part, but it's short-lived, because his expression abruptly turns smoothly calm and smug, and my levels of dread and suspicion instantly shoot straight through the roof. I'm really not going to like whatever he's about to say, am I?

"I believe you know all about the surveillance I have on you and my brother, am I right?"

"Yeah, you have us followed by your men practically everywhere we go."

Mycroft's mouth twists into a knowing smirk. Crap, I'm really, _really_ not going to like this, that's for sure.

"True, but did you also know that I have twenty-four seven surveillance on 221B Baker Street, too? That means that whatever happens within those four walls, I have recorded permanently on tape. Like last Thursday, for example. Do you remember precisely what you were doing at around half past eight that night, Dr Watson? I'm sure I don't need to refresh your memory."

All the blood instantly drains from my face in sheer horror as I realise exactly what he's trying to get at. _Oh, bloody fucking hell! _I actually don't think I've ever hated Mycroft Holmes quite as much as I do right now.

Thursday was the day when Sherlock and I had been investigating a suspect's house for clues and they'd come home unexpectedly early, so we'd had to hide in the first place we could, which at the time had been possibly the tiniest wardrobe in the entire world. Two fully-grown men trapped together in a cramped enclosed space, pressed up against each other in all the wrong, inappropriate ways, and my traitorous body decided that it enjoyed this position far too much to just ignore my unusually close proximity to Sherlock Holmes. I'd felt the heat of his body seeping through both his clothes and mine from behind me and his breath was warm and steady against the back of my neck. It'd been so damn hard (no pun intended) to stop a certain part of my anatomy reacting in the way it really wanted to, but by some miracle I managed to restrain myself. Barely.

Until we got home that evening, that is, and Sherlock rushed off to St Bart's to test samples of some unknown powder he'd found in our suspect's bathroom sink, leaving me all alone in the flat. My brain had then betrayed me, making me remember exactly how delicious it'd felt to have the long lean body of my dark-haired flatmate flush against me, and I couldn't stop the southwards rush of blood that time. So from there I'd ended up naked and panting on top of my bedcovers, thrusting wildly up into my hand and shouting Sherlock's name to the high heavens as I came all over my fingers.

_And oh God, oh God, Mycroft's got that all on tape! This can't be happening, please let this not be happening!_ I should've realised that something like that would inevitably come back to haunt me at some point, I just hadn't expected it to be so soon!

Mycroft's victorious smirk spreads even wider, a truly evil chuckle (in my opinion) spilling from his lips as he obviously reads just what I'm thinking from the horror-stricken expression on my face alone.

"Something wrong, John?" He inquires innocently, picking up his tea from the table and taking a delicate sip to hide his smug smile.

I know I've turned bright red, my face practically burning with embarrassment. I can't even bring myself to meet his eyes across the coffee table.

"How… I can't _believe_ you can just… That's just so…" I splutter like an absolute idiot, trying to say everything going through my mind all at once and making a right royal mess of it.

"What? You're honestly surprised that I have video footage of you masturbating whilst thinking of my brother?"

"Of course I bloody am!" I all but explode in indignation, actually unable to believe that Mycroft seriously saw _nothing wrong_ with what he'd just said. I have to bring my cup back to my lips and take a drink just for something to do with my hands, because if I don't I would've been sorely tempted to strangle the elder Holmes sat across from me.

"Oh, don't worry, I have some recordings of him doing the exact same thing, vice versa. Although he seems to prefer masturbating over you in the shower for discretion, rather than sprawled out on his bed where practically anyone can see."

For the second time in about ten minutes I almost choke to death on a mouthful of tea, and judging by the delighted roguish expression on Mycroft's face, he'd purposely said that whilst I was drinking, the bastard. Only this time, it's not the words he's said, but rather the mental images they bring straight to the front of my poor tortured brain. Sherlock Holmes, naked in the shower with water running all over that stunning pale white skin, touching himself and groaning my name through gritted teeth as he throws his head back and… Ah, _whoa_, not good, definitely not good. Crossing my legs seems like a _really_ fantastic idea right now, thanks.

"How…" I start to ask, then trail off, licking my lips nervously before I try again, "How long have you known?"

Every scrap of mischief and smugness vanishes completely from Mycroft's face and he turns impossibly serious, his light blue eyes softening ever so slightly as he meets my gaze steadily. I shift uncomfortably in my seat, averting my eyes. It's not easy for me, admitting that I'm in love with Sherlock Holmes, but I just physically can't keep trying to delude myself any longer. _Time to be a man and face facts, Watson._

"Months. In fact, I had a vague suspicion at that very first meeting of ours. The amount of loyalty you already held for a man you'd only just met was astounding, really, not to mention revealing. It was inevitable that this would happen, Dr Watson. And to be completely honest, I've stood back for far too long now."

I glance back over at him sharply, frowning in suspicion.

"What do you mean? It's not like you can do anything, Mycroft. You might be one of the most powerful men in England, but that doesn't mean you can play matchmaker for us. This is _Sherlock Holmes_ we're talking about here, and me… well, just look at me! I'm not exactly his type, if he even has one. I'm too… _boring_ for a man like him. I'm nothing special." I shrug, telling it how it is. It's the truth, after all, and sometimes the truth hurts, but that doesn't change a single thing about it.

Mycroft blinks at me in surprise, tilting his head curiously to one side as he regards me with that penetrating stare of his. I pretend I can't see the tiniest flickers of pity in those bright blue depths.

"You really believe that, don't you?" He says softly. I don't respond because I know I don't have to. He reads my answer from my face in a split-second and his fingers tighten a little around the smooth handle of his umbrella.

"I have a plan, Dr Watson," Mycroft states after a few moments of somewhat awkward silence. Well, it felt awkward to me, but probably not to him, "And in order for that plan to work, it's absolutely _vital_ that you play your part as convincingly as you possibly can. My brother is infamously perceptive, as you and I both know, so I do hope your acting skills are up to scratch."

"My acting skills? What the… Did you actually hear what I just said at all?" I demand hotly, and Mycroft waves away my question dismissively with his free hand. This is why I hate trying to make either Holmes brother see bloody sense, because neither of them listens to me at all! Christ, I don't know why I actually even bother sometimes, I really don't.

"Of course I did, and it was completely irrelevant. Now listen to me very carefully, John: There's still a few last minute arrangements I need to sort out, but over the next seven days you're going to meet someone, and no matter what happens, _you must play along_, do you understand?"

I've never been more lost and confused in my entire life, but I'm really not in the mood to argue or protest any more than I already have, so instead of telling Mycroft exactly where he can stick his 'plan', I heave a resigned sigh and glance pleadingly up at the ceiling for strength.

"And just how am I supposed to know who this person is?"

Mycroft grins at me knowingly, like the cat that got the cream.

"You'll know. Trust me." He assures me, rising gracefully from his armchair with his umbrella tucked carefully under one arm. I stand up with him and he reaches out to shake my hand.

"Goodbye, John. No doubt we'll be seeing each other again sometime soon." Mycroft smiles with surprising genuine warmth, "Anthea is waiting outside to take you back to Baker Street."

I nod in response, giving him a small (and probably pained) smile of acknowledgement as he drops my hand and I turn to leave, heading for the door through which I first came. I'm nearly at the door when Mycroft decides to speak again before I leave.

"You're wrong, you know."

I lurch to a halt with my back to him, turning my head slightly to the side so I can glance questioningly back over my shoulder at the elder Holmes brother. He's regarding me speculatively from where I left him standing in front of the coffee table, and behind him the unknown man from earlier who brought me a cup of tea appears in the kitchen doorway, the sunlight from the front window reflecting off his glasses and completely obscuring his earthy-eyes from view.

"You are special, John Watson." Mycroft continues, his brows furrowing as he stares at me sincerely, almost as though he's daring me to contradict him, "Especially in my brother's eyes."

For a long moment, there's absolute silence. Then I laugh softly, the corner of my lips quirking upwards as I shake my head slightly.

"If you say so." I reply, still smiling as I turn away from him again. And with that, I walk out of the flat, jogging briskly down the steps to that same black unmarked car waiting by the kerb. The door swings open as I approach and I climb inside, not looking back even once as we pull away, leaving Mycroft Holmes far behind.

Oh God, what the bloody hell have I actually just gotten myself into?

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**Eek, for some reason, John's POV was harder to write than Mycroft's! What the hell? And then next there's Sherlock's, oh dear, this might just kill me XD**

**So, d'you still like it? Mycroft's keeping his 'plan' pretty close to the chest right now, the sneaky boy XD**

**Ooh, wait, I have two questions for you:**

**1, For Lestrade, since his first name is a mystery, which would you prefer me to call him? Greg or Geoff? Either or, I don't mind, it's up to you guys.**

**And 2, Don't even think too long about this, just pick the one you like most. Which name do you prefer: Thomas or Nathan? Yep, this is relevant, and all will be revealed haha, just help me pick a name please! ^^**

**Leave me a pretty little review? I'd hug it and cherish it for a very very long time. Thanks! :D**


	3. An Apple A Day Makes My Doctor Stay

**Bloody hell, 69 reviews and it's only the second chapter! (Well, third if we're being technical and counting the prologue). I'm actually blown away by this response, I totally hadn't expected you guys to like this as much as you do! Thank you so much to everyone who has reviewed/faved/alerted this so far, you're all amazing! :D**

**Well, Lestrade's name was pretty easily decided, with Greg winning by a landslide haha, and so far Nathan is in the lead for the other :) But there's still this chapter for you to vote on which you like best! Because next chapter is the one where that name is going to come into play, my dears, but shush… spoilers haha ;p**

**Sherlock's POV… oh dear O.o I'm not as happy with this chapter as I was with the first two. It's a bit filler-ish, but necessary. :( Sorry this has taken so long, but Writer's Block is a real bitch and seriously killed my inspiration halfway through. I literally clawed it back by my fingertips, no joke. Hopefully I'm back in the swing of this now :)**

**Thank you once again to the wonderful Elvendork. Infinity, whose PMs have made me smile many many times over and who has read through this all for me, checking my tenses and everything ^^ Thanks honey, don't know what I'd do without you!**

**Read on and review for me, thanks! (PS: Word limit? What word limit? Hehe ;p )**

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Chapter 2: An Apple A Day (Makes My Doctor Stay).

Sherlock's POV:

Being left alone to my own devices for a long period of time has never boded well for me. My intellect constantly needs to be challenged and stimulated, and there's only so much I can do to keep my wits sharp and active when I'm sat by myself in an empty room with nothing but an infuriatingly reticent human skull on the mantelpiece for company. After a while it's inevitable that my mind begins to rebel against this intolerable stagnation. And a bored Sherlock Holmes does not bode well for the rest of civilisation. Or so I've been told. Multiple times.

It's understandable how most people think that, really, considering how my usual cures for dullness generally tend to include a gun or a possibly lethal substance in a test tube. Take right now, for instance. I'm sprawled out on the leather sofa cushions in my pyjamas and favourite blue silk dressing gown, staring absently upwards at where there's about a dozen or so sharp kitchen knives embedded in the ceiling above my head. I'm holding yet another blade in my hands, twirling it around lazily between my fingers, the metal heated from the warmth of my skin. _Bored, bored, bored_. Ah, boredom truly is a dangerous state of mind for a high-functioning sociopath like me.

I almost regret solving that case so quickly. It'd been the redhead's brother who'd done it, of course; his particularly pungent aftershave had as good as damned him. But maybe I should've drawn it out a little longer, revelled in the thrill of a brilliantly exciting mystery for a few more hours. Maybe it would've spared me from this unbearable tediousness and my brain wouldn't be rapidly losing interest in everything around me, including the cutlery quivering ominously above in the plaster. Hmm, which one would fall first, I wonder? The heaviest, I imagine; the metal-handled carving knife which John had used a fortnight ago to expertly fend off a rather quick-tempered heroin addict who'd tried to ambush us in our flat with a baseball bat. If that knife did fall right now, it would pierce me straight between the eyes. How dull.

It's twenty past eight now, and John should've finished his extended shift at the clinic well over an hour ago. But I'm not worried. Why should I be? There are thousands of possible harmless explanations for his lateness, and besides, he's been late home a fair few times before, with the reason for that usually being my obnoxious interfering older brother. And that's most likely the case today. Mycroft just can't seem to grasp the fact that John Watson is _my_ flatmate, friend and colleague, not _his_.

_Ah, John_. The deceptively pedestrian ex-army medic who carries his heart on his sleeve and the weight of the world on his shoulders, the battle-hardened soldier with such fierce loyalty and high moral standards, the funny sarcastic little man in knitted jumpers who never hesitates to follow me into the most dire of situations, no matter what the cost. There are so many ways to describe John Watson, but nothing really seems to sum him up just right in my eyes. He's so frustratingly difficult to categorise, even to someone as adept as me. I've lost count of how many times I've stared at my flatmate, intending to pick him apart piece by piece in my mind, but for some reason there's always something new to surprise me and I can't for the life of me figure out exactly what it is that makes John Watson tick, so to speak. In some ways, he's still a mystery to me, even after all these months. But then in other ways… well, being such a comfortably emotion-driven man, John is rather easy to read from even the subtlest facial expressions. He's absolutely _fascinating_ to me. And that, in itself, is bloody inconvenient.

I heave a sigh and bring the knife in my hands up to my face, studying my reflection in the metal. Cold eyes an intense shade of grey-blue (courtesy of my late father) stare back at me from amidst my pale face, framed by my crop of unruly dark brown curls. The silence in the flat is thick, stifling, almost suffocating. Six months ago, I would've taken up a one-sided conversation with my skull for hours on end, but lately I've grown rather fond of hearing a voice answer me back for a change. A sometimes-calm, sometimes-exasperated soothing tenor that always responds with such awe and amazement whenever I pull a spectacular deduction seemingly out of thin air. Ah, I'll never grow tired of it.

I'm missing it right now, though. I turn my head slightly to shoot an accusatory glare in the direction of Yorick (yes, an unoriginal name for a skull, I know, but John chose it, not me.) grinning at me from the mantelpiece for his inability to talk. God, any more of this and I might just break out John's Browning L9A1. That wall could do with a few more bullets, I think.

I haven't touched that gun ever since the incident at the pool with Jim Moriarty and his horde of snipers. It feels like a reminder to me, and whenever I see the weapon in John's hands an unpleasant shiver trails my spine, bringing memories of that night straight back to the forefront of my brain. I've tried to delete it. It's pointless and distracting but no matter what I do, the images just outright refuse to remove themselves from my mind, taking up far too much vital thinking space.

It was Moriarty's eyes that had made me pull the trigger. Those cold dark orbs had taunted me from across the room, alight with such sadistic elation and blatantly screaming that I wouldn't be able to do it, wouldn't be able to kill him when it meant killing both myself and John as well. He'd underestimated me then. Moriarty might have realised that my heart isn't entirely immune to my sociopathic tendencies, but he'd wrongly assumed that that would cloud my judgment due to the fact that the resulting explosion would blow all three of us straight to hell. A fatal error on his part.

I hadn't considered a way out. At that moment, nothing else mattered to me except ridding the world of the psychopathic consulting criminal that was Jim Moriarty once and for all, the consequences of my actions be damned. And that was almost a fatal error on my part too, because if it weren't for John Watson's quick thinking and impeccable military reflexes, neither of us would've gotten out of there alive.

The moment I fired that crucial shot, my flatmate slammed himself bodily into me with all the strength of his deceptively small frame, sending us both plunging straight into the sparkling blue waters of the swimming pool just as Moriarty's snipers let loose a volley of bullets in return, the majority of which had missed our flailing limbs by literally a hair's breadth. As the bomb ignited in a vicious explosion of white noise, fire and shrapnel that tore the room apart and shook the entire building to it's very foundations, mine and John's combined momentum sunk us like stones, our bodies plummeting fast and hard to the bottom of the pool that was far closer to the surface than it'd first appeared. My right shoulder had made brutal contact with the unforgiving tiles first, swiftly followed by the back of my skull, the former popping the joint straight out of the socket in a flare of unbearable agony that was mirrored by the latter in my head. Concussion was immediate and overwhelming.

The pain had actually been so intense that my mind simply shut down for a moment and I slipped into unconsciousness (not an altogether wise thing to do whilst underwater, I must admit), then surging back to awareness a few short minutes later, coughing up a lungful of chlorinated water as a sodden and exhausted John Watson dragged me out of the pool.

I'd just laid there spread-eagled on my back, staring up at whatever was left of the ceiling with a horrible fuzzy sense of detachment clogging up my mind, my thoughts disjointed and blurred from the concussion. I've always hated losing control of my logic, be it through emotions or injury. The feeling of utter helplessness, being lost inside my own head even for a moment with my previously lightning fast mental processes suddenly sluggish and unremarkable… I hate it. I'm absolutely _nothing_ without my brilliant mind, so the loss of control like that felt almost like a personal failure. When my carefully constructed mental walls are overpowered and come crashing down, I'm just like every other human being in the world. And in all honesty, I'd rather die than be just like everyone else: slow, unspectacular, _normal_. Normality is on par with boredom to me. They're practically the same thing, in my eyes.

And then John Watson's face had appeared above me, those tawny irises like twin pools of honey that reflected the flickering light of the flames surrounding us. Even through my blurry vision, the sheer amount of worry etched deep into every single line of his features was far too vivid as he stared down at me, breathing shallowly through his nose.

"Sherlock? Come on, Sherlock, talk to me; you've got to stay with me here, don't you _dare_ fall asleep, you hear me?" John had ordered, his voice seeming oddly out of sync with the movement of his mouth. Any other time, I probably would've rolled my eyes at him, but right then my head had felt as thought it was attempting to rip itself apart from the inside out and my shoulder still burned unbearably, rendering the rest of my right arm disturbingly numb. Determinedly ignoring the fog clouding my brain, I'd struggled to sit upright, my displaced limb dangling uselessly by my side, sharp spikes of pain jolting from the joint downwards. I must've winced or made some sort of noise in response because John's eyes swiftly narrowed into scrutinising tawny slits and zeroed straight in on the dislocated appendage.

Without a second's hesitation, he'd reached out with impossibly steady hands and took hold of my shoulder, firmly rotating it back into it's socket before I could even consider jerking out of his grasp. And _fucking hell fire_ had it hurt. If I hadn't already been on the floor when he reset the joint, my knees would've definitely caved beneath me from the vicious responding wave of pain that had been nearly a thousand times more agonising than the actual dislocation itself.

I hadn't noticed the blood until John pulled back, both palms dark red and dripping. At first I'd thought it was mine, that my shoulderblade had torn straight through my skin or something equally as gruesome as that, but then John cursed under his breath and pressed his hands back down hard against his thigh, his tanned fingers quickly becoming submerged in sticky crimson fluid that had soaked through the leg of his jeans and was slowly spreading along the tiles beneath us.

All I could do was stare at his bloodied hands in morbid fascination and utter disbelief, my concussed brain connecting the dots at an embarrassingly slow rate. John had been shot by one of Moriarty's snipers. Either they hadn't been exceptionally good at their job, or John had had a very lucky escape from a bullet that could've possibly splattered his brains or internal organs all over the poolside.

The ex-army medic had glanced up and caught sight of my almost unblinking gaze on his stained fingers. His eyelids fluttered tiredly, his face drawn and ashen as he'd forced a weak smile that I assumed was supposed to be reassuring, but had the complete opposite effect.

"It's fine… Bullet went straight through, missed the femoral artery… just need to keep… keep pressure on it… stop the bleeding…" John had breathed heavily, every word a sheer effort through gritted teeth. I'd been awestruck, I must admit, that even with a gaping gunshot wound in his thigh, John Watson had still managed to drag us both out of the pool and reset my dislocated shoulder, focusing his entire attention on making sure I was alright before even considering his own injury which was by all means far worse than any of mine. A true soldier, through and through.

Soon enough though, the blood loss was too great for him to remain conscious any longer. He'd passed out against me, his face dropping onto my undamaged shoulder as I'd picked up where he'd left off, putting as much pressure onto the wound as I dared, straining to hear the oncoming police sirens over the crackling of flames. Never in my life have I felt so helpless and out of my depth. I'm not a medical man. That was John's area of expertise, not mine, so there was literally _nothing_ I could do for him until the paramedics arrived on scene and gently disentangled my wounded flatmate from my grasp. But right at that moment when they'd loaded John into the back of the ambulance, realisation had struck me, somehow ripping through the concussion and into my addled brain like a bolt of lightning. Right then, I'd realised just how much I truly cared for John Watson. I was scared for him, terrified at the thought that if he'd lost approximately half a pint more blood than he already had, then he would've been gone forever. Never had I felt such fear for another person before, and never had I felt such guilt either. John had been shot because of me. He could've died, and it would've been entirely my fault. Knowing that… it physically _hurts_ sometimes. Unexplainably.

God, where the hell is he? What could my brother _possibly_ want with John that was taking so damn long? They're probably only talking about something trivial and unimportant anyway, like my general health and well-being. That seems to be a favourite topic of theirs: how I need to eat more, how little sleep I'm getting, how I really should consider wearing gloves when dealing with corrosive chemical substances. _Boring_. Sometimes I think Mycroft abducts my flatmate just because he has no one else to talk to. Either that or he's doing it just to spite me. It's a combination of both, I think. Damn him to hell.

With a groan of irritation directed at my elder brother and the world in general, I lurch up from the sofa and stalk over to the window, using the tip of the kitchen knife I'm still holding to pull back the thin net curtain so I can stare down into the street below. It's pitch black outside, the only light coming from a couple of streetlights dotted along the road and the hazy glow of the moon from above. There are no stars in the sky either; so stargazing to keep my attention occupied for a few short minutes is out of the question right now. Christ, is there literally _nothing_ interesting around here? I'm considering turning the TV on. Even watching crap telly is better than this.

A pair of headlights suddenly cuts through the gloom, a familiar car the exact same colour as the surrounding darkness slowing to a stop right outside 221B. I don't even try to repress the smile that tugs at the corners of my lips as I watch John Watson climb out of the backseat. _Ah, thank God for that_.

Letting the curtain drop back into place, I move away from the window and throw myself dramatically back down onto the leather cushions, my bare feet dangling over the sofa arm. The front door bangs and footsteps start to make their way slowly up the staircase. Hmm, the right sounds a little heavier than the left… his leg must be troubling him again, but I know for a fact he'll just ignore it like he always does. For a medical man, he's incredibly stubborn and indifferent when it comes to his own injuries. Doctors are the worst patients, I suppose.

But when _I'm_ the injured one it's an entirely different story. He all but hits the bloody roof, every single time. It's quite endearing, actually. Not that I'd ever admit that to anyone, especially not to him. I'd never live it down.

When I hear him on the landing, I take brief aim with my knife and toss it upwards to join the others in the ceiling above my head, the dull metallic thud echoing around the otherwise silent flat. The door to 221B flings open and John walks in, the expression on his face a curious combination of thoughtful, exhausted and exasperated, but I don't get much of a chance to consider this because the heavy wood collides with the wall beside it, and the responding vibrations cause the knives embedded in the ceiling to quiver alarmingly. As I expected, the heavy-handled carving knife is the first to fall.

John's eyes widen and he looks like he's about to shout a warning, but I've long since anticipated the danger. I roll sideways off the sofa almost casually, straightening up and adjusting my dressing gown, watching impassively as the sharp blade rips straight through the leather cushion and buries itself up to the hilt in the exact place where my face had previously been. Hmm, a few more centimetres to the left than I'd originally assumed, though. A small miscalculation there. I'll remember that for next time.

My flatmate now looks even more exasperated than before, if that's even possible. That seems to be John's most frequent emotional state around me. Can't say I blame him though; he has the patience of a saint for putting up with me this long.

"Are you actually _trying_ to kill yourself?" He demands incredulously.

"Oh please. If I was, I'd choose a far more inventive method." I respond, reaching down to yank the knife free from the sofa and examining the thin slit in the leather it left behind. John sighs, clumsily nudging the door shut behind him with the heel of his shoe.

"I think I prefer it when you shoot the wall. At least then there's less chance of you injuring yourself." John says, tilting his head upwards to eye the other knives warily, scratching absently at the back of his neck as he makes his way across the threshold and towards his armchair. I glance over at him from beneath the dark curls that hang down in front of my eyes. He's wearing that jumper I'm particularly fond of, the knitted beige one that's oh so wonderfully soft to the touch whenever you accidentally brush against it… Ah, not that that's of any importance at the moment, of course. Just a simple observation, nothing more.

"Mm. What did Mycroft want this time?"

John sighs as he slumps down into his chair, rubbing tiredly at his forehead with one hand. There's something… different about him that I can't quite put my finger on. His shoulders are a little tense, and the fingers of his right hand are tapping against his leg distractedly. It's rather odd behaviour for John, but then again, I suppose a bad day at the clinic followed by an unwelcomed visit from my brother is enough to put any man on edge.

"The usual." He answers after a moment, brushing that same hand back through his short blond/brown hair and relaxing a little further into the Union Jack cushion he claimed as his own months ago. "Though why he can't just text you or something instead of kidnapping me, I've no idea. It's not like I can convince you to bloody well eat something before you pass out any better than he can."

I snort humourlessly, now fast losing interest in this subject. Just as I'd thought: Mycroft abducting John for yet another stupid and pointless tête-à-tête about me taking better care of myself. How dull. Honestly, has he nothing better to do than constantly check up on me? Doesn't he have a Government to run or some Korean elections to interfere with? Typical Mycroft, sticking his nose in where it is neither wanted nor needed.

"I always delete Mycroft's texts without reading them."

"What if it's something important?" John replies, his tawny eyes taking in the entire dishevelled state of the flat which indicates quite clearly that Sherlock Holmes has been home alone (and bored out of his mind) all day. I sigh, tossing the carving knife uncaringly aside back onto the sofa before turning to shoot the ex-army medic a piercing look that he's all too familiar with, one that blatantly screams: _'Why do you ask such stupid questions?'_

"Then he'll phone me."

"Oh, of course." John mutters, shaking his head. The sarcasm in his voice makes the corners of my lips quirk ever so slightly upwards and I turn away before he has chance to notice. I never used to smile like this. To be honest, I never really used to have much cause to smile like this before. Perhaps that's what happens when you genuinely enjoy a particular person's company: you end up grinning inanely at everything they say simply because it's just _them_. My thoughts on this are currently inconclusive. After all, I can hardly test this on anyone else, can I? No, the people out there are far too boring and hideously predictable, their tiny brains filled with all kinds of nonsense and idiocy. Now John, on the other hand… John is a challenge. And I do so love a good challenge.

"You wouldn't believe how much I'm dying for a shower right now." John suddenly announces, bringing me back to the present as he heaves himself up out of his armchair. I notice how he flinches a little as he stands, a somewhat pained grimace flickering across his face for a split-second when he straightens up. Strange, but easily dismissed. His leg is the source of discomfort, obviously.

I don't answer him, merely because I know he doesn't expect me to. Instead, I move over to my own armchair opposite and climb elegantly into it, settling myself on the smooth leather with my knees pulled up to my chest and my hands poised beneath my chin. John yawns and stretches, and under _no circumstances whatsoever_ is my gaze drawn to the thin strip of tanned skin that's all too visible when the hem of his jumper rides up a good few inches.

My grey-blue eyes follow him unblinkingly as he turns and heads for the bathroom, leaving me alone yet again. The boredom starts to creep in almost instantly as soon as his jumper-clad back disappears entirely from sight, and I'm sorely tempted to resume where I left off with the knives in the ceiling, but I decide against it. Instead, I sit in my chair in silence, still staring at the doorway through which John just left, losing myself to my thoughts once more.

Six months ago, I was perfectly content with my own company. Revelled in it, even. I hadn't been able to imagine willingly sharing my life with someone else, letting them close enough to me to consider them anything more than unavoidable acquaintances, and hell, even involving them in my work. And yet, here I am now, living in 221B Baker Street with one John Watson, a spectacularly unspectacular man with so many hidden depths beneath those layers of wool and polyester that would undoubtedly take me the rest of my life to fully explore and discover. He's truly my most invaluable living asset, even if he doesn't realise just how important his presence and opinions are to me. I find myself instinctively turning to my companion all the time for prompts on what is or isn't acceptable 'human' behaviour, whereas before I would've just spoken my mind without being aware of the social repercussions. John has definitely changed something in me, but I haven't yet decided if this is a good thing or a bad thing. It varies, I think.

From that first moment of our meeting, a strong friendship had fast developed between us, despite all our individual differences that would've made us the worst flatmates in London for anyone other than each other. My indifferent (and occasionally volatile) personality and sociopathic tendencies had clashed head-on with his notoriously hot temper and insufferable empathetic nature far too many times to count, but somehow, we made it work. And as the bond between us continued to grow, I suppose it was inevitable that it would develop into something further. Karma, I'd say, if I believed in such a thing. Of course fate wouldn't let me have one good thing in my life without throwing some consequences in along the way. Of course I couldn't have a friend so close and dear to me without falling hopelessly in love with him.

And as a self-professed sociopath, it's something that I shouldn't have been able to do or feel at all. I'd never thought it possible for someone like me to fall prey to an emotion as ridiculous and unnecessary as 'love', but that's exactly what has happened. I haven't ever experienced anything like this before in my entire life, but I've read things, heard things… This is how you're supposed to feel when you… _love_ someone. Unrequitedly, too, to add further insult to an already fatal injury. Because disappointingly, John Watson is entirely heterosexual. _Damn_.

The shower splutters to life in the other room, followed by the soft sounds of material brushing against skin as John quickly undresses and steps beneath the hot spray, his slight hiss at the swift change in temperature barely audible over the roar of the water, but I hear it perfectly. I always do. Nothing John does when I'm around escapes me. Well, naturally, I'm Sherlock Holmes, for God's sake! I'm _intimately_ familiar with all his habits and patterns, every single tiny gesture, expression and mannerism that's all part and parcel of John Watson. To be honest, I notice far too many little details about the good doctor that seems completely irrelevant and unimportant, even to me. Like the way the skin at the corner of his expressive tawny eyes crinkles whenever he smiles, or how he tilts his head ever so slightly to the side like a bemused puppy when he isn't quite following whatever it is I'm trying to explain to him. There's nothing of any particular use behind these observations, so why do I constantly pick up on them? Some would call it infatuation, or obsession. Whatever it is, it's infuriating as hell.

And something else that's infuriating as hell: the sexual frustration. Christ! How do people actually _stand_ it? Knowing that you can look, but never touch… I hate it when I can't get what I want. My brother and many others have learnt that the hard way over the years, but I can't jeopardise my friendship with John just because I want him in my bed. At the moment, my attraction to my flatmate is nothing more than a dirty little secret, and that isn't about to change any time soon. After all, who has to know?

My self-restraint has been tested, though. Numerous times. Last Thursday, for example, when the international fraudster Daniel Vaines had returned home earlier than I'd anticipated whilst John and I had been searching his house, and the two of us had been forced to hide in his wardrobe to avoid detection. With the ex-army medic in such close proximity to me in such a confined space, it'd been so horribly tempting to just reach out, take hold of his hips and pull him back flush against my body… But I restrained myself. Barely. And it hadn't helped that he was wearing that black and white striped jumper at the time. Now _that_ particular jumper does things to me no knitted item of clothing ever should.

My lower abdomen flares with sudden warmth at the memory. Hell, that's the last thing I need right now, so I quickly steer my thoughts away from that dangerous territory before I have chance to become aroused and even more sexually frustrated than I already am. John showering in the next room is bad enough for my currently over-active imagination, so anything else along with that might actually be the death of me.

Speaking of which, why has the shower stopped so soon? Whenever John comes back from a long day at the clinic, he always takes a shower that lasts between twenty minutes to half an hour, because that's the only way he can fully relax and ease his aching muscles. And I would've thought, with a visit from Mycroft on top of that, he'd be in that shower for the best part of forty minutes, maybe even longer. (See, that's what my brother does to you: he makes you want to drown yourself. Believe me, I know. I've often felt that way myself a few times). But less than ten minutes? That's not right.

I sit up a little straighter in my chair in curiosity. There must be something wrong here. What could I have missed? Is he ill? Good God, I hope not. John is literally a living nightmare when he's sick. A bit like me, I suppose. We both try to deny there's anything wrong with us and we struggle on until we eventually collapse. We're every bit as stubborn as each other in that aspect.

I don't have to wait long for him to return, and when he finally does pad back into the living room, barefoot and towel in hand, I stare at him with such fierce scrutiny that I bet he can practically feel my eyes burning into his skin.

"Something wrong?" He asks, frowning at me uncertainly as he reaches up to towel his damp hair dry. My grey-blue gaze roams over his entire body, cataloguing every flex and twitch of every muscle beneath his pale blue pyjama bottoms and long-sleeved sleeping shirt that look every bit as soft as his jumpers. John always looks soft and warm to me. Approachable and safe. For some reason, it makes me think of home, but then it also reminds me of just how deceptive appearances could be. You wouldn't think him a battle-hardened soldier at first glance, and that's a grave mistake that so many people have made over the past six months I've known him.

"That was quick." I comment shortly, letting my narrowed eyes flicker up to his admittedly attractive face which still holds so much boyish youth despite being lined a little with age. John finishes rubbing at his hair and drapes the towel around the back of his neck instead as he blinks at me from across the room.

"Hm? Oh, the shower." It could be a trick of the light, but I swear John winces slightly as he says that. "Sherlock, I'm so tired right now that if I'd stayed in there any longer, I would've actually fallen asleep and drowned. So if you decide to play your violin again at three in the morning, I swear to God I will come down here and beat you to death with it."

I chuckle softly under my breath, one side of my mouth quirking upwards into an amused half-smirk, and he flashes me a small fond smile in return.

"Have you eaten anything today?" John asks, his hands on his hips as he regards me like a stern housewife. In fact, when he looks at me like that, he almost reminds me of my mother. Now that's a scary thought. I don't think he'd appreciate the association, although my mother is a rather charming woman (in her own unique way). She is a Holmes, after all.

I don't even have to bother responding, because he sighs and shakes his head in annoyance as he stalks over to the mantelpiece, looking for all the world like a slightly damp teddy bear on a mission.

"Who am I kidding, of course you haven't." He mutters, rolling his eyes. Sitting beside my skull is a small fruit bowl (John's idea, obviously) which I've been banned from using the contents of in my experiments or as target practise on pain of grievous bodily harm, and I watch coolly as John takes hold of a moderately dusty apple and wipes it clean with the cuff of his sleeve.

He tosses it to me and I catch it easily in one hand. I raise an eyebrow at him questioningly as he picks up another one for himself.

"Apple a day keeps the doctor away." John smiles.

What a stupid phrase. Why on earth would I want to keep my doctor away?

"See you in the morning, Sherlock." He says, turning to leave. Then he pauses in the doorway and glances back at me over his shoulder, his tawny eyes narrowed dangerously. "And by 'morning', I mean after nine. Not three."

And then he's gone once more. I wait until I hear his bedroom door bang shut and the creak of bedsprings before I allow a rare genuine grin to spread across my lips.

I take a large bite out of the apple, not caring the slightest as a thin line of juice trails down my chin. Violin practise soon, I think.

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**All my alerts and PM settings keep randomly disabling themselves, has this happened to anyone else? It's so annoying :/**

**Anyways, next chapter… MYCROFT'S PLAN BEGINS! Haha, excellent, can't wait! ^^**

**Oh, and the skull thing? C'mon, you see a (hopefully fake) skull and you just can't resist holding it out in one hand and saying: "Alas, poor Yorick, I knew him well…" It's practically human nature! I can totally see John doing that too XD (EDIT: I'm sorry, I misquoted it! Thank you to lillyankh for correcting me, Shakespeare isnt my forte :D )**

**So d'you still like it? Let me know what you think, I'd be so grateful! ^^**

**See ya next time! **


	4. There's No Way My Luck Can Be That Bad

**One hundred and five reviews! Oh my God, I don't know what to say. Thank you all so much! You're amazing, every last one of you! ^^**

**Ah, as if writing this wasn't hard enough already, I went and threw a case in there too XD But then again, what is a Sherlock Holmes story without one? I'm hoping the case will take a backseat in this, because A, I'd rather focus on Mycroft's plan and getting John and Sherlock together, and B, I'm nowhere near creative enough to come up with a case worthy of Sherlock Holmes :( But I've got a funny feeling that this story might end up being longer than I originally intended. Oh well, I'm sure you guys won't be complaining about that! :D**

**Y'know, this chapter wouldn't have been up here at all if it weren't for my friend Jack, because the stupid college computers decided to corrupt my memory stick, and I couldn't open any files at all, but Jack the lifesaver managed to recover them all for me! So you should all thank him for his awesome computer skills, without which this chapter would've been forever lost.**

**And once again, thank you so much to the wonderful Elvendork-Infinity for the feedback and the help, I really appreciate it! I've almost mastered those tenses now! Haha :D THANK YOU! ^^**

**This chapter ended up being WAY longer than I thought it'd be :/ 7120 words! O.O Um… word limit? No idea what that is ^^**

**Anyways, on with the chapter! Read on and review for me, it'd make me a very happy bunny!**

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Chapter 3: There's No Way My Luck Can Be That Bad.

John's POV:

Thanks to Mycroft Holmes, I can't enjoy a nice relaxing shower any more with the knowledge that some unlucky suit is watching me via a video feed from our bathroom. There might not be anything altogether perverse about it (oh, but it isn't far off, bloody Holmes and his lack of respect for personal boundaries), and I'm sure Mycroft has his reasons, but I can't help but think maybe the bathroom camera is a step too far. The bedroom cameras are bad enough. Hell, _all_ the hidden cameras are bad enough! Yes, I get it that he wants to keep as close an eye on his sociopathic younger brother as possible, but twenty-four hour surveillance really is overkill, in my opinion. All I can say is that I feel so sorry for the poor sods who have to sit there and watch Sherlock and me for hours on end. I hope they get paid extra for all this psychological damage.

These past four days since my latest meeting with Mycroft, I've been little more than a nervous wreck. He'd said that sometime during the next week, I'd meet someone and his secret plan would come into play. To be honest, I haven't a clue what he's got in mind, or how on earth it's supposed to help bring Sherlock and me together. Which it won't, anyway, whatever he tries to do. And I'm not just being pessimistic there. No matter what Mycroft says, I refuse to believe that his brother has feelings for me that are anything more than platonic. It… it just isn't possible! It doesn't work! This is Sherlock Holmes we're talking about here! There's no way on earth that my flatmate thinks of me in that way, never mind using me as masturbation material. I think I'll need more proof than the word of Mycroft Holmes, thanks.

I yawn widely as the kettle boils, willing my eyes to stay open long enough for me to rummage around for two teabags and drop them into the cleanest pair of mugs I can find. You always have to be careful in this kitchen. The last time I neglected to check exactly what I was adding to my tea, I nearly poisoned myself with some lethal concoction Sherlock decided to replace the milk with for one of his experiments. That man will be the death of me someday, I swear.

It's about nine o'clock in the morning, and I've literally only just woken up less than fifteen minutes ago. I'm so glad I don't have to be at the clinic today, because I actually don't think I've ever been this tired in my entire life, but that's all Sherlock and his bloody violin's fault. Don't get me wrong, he can carry a damn good tune with that thing when he wants to, but why does he always have to practise (and practise horrifically, I might add, like he's trying to hack the strings to death) hours before the crack of dawn? It's so infuriating! But then again, if he didn't do it, I'd think he was ill or something. Just one of the many inescapable eccentricities of the wonder that is Sherlock Holmes.

I'm curious though, I've got to admit. About Mycroft's 'plan', I mean. Because really, God knows what goes on in that mysterious brain of his, and I'm seriously worried that I might need some kind of therapy if I ever manage to live through whatever he's going to do to his brother and me in order to get us together. Hell, it could be something as simple as locking the two of us in a room and not letting us out until someone ends up with a limp that's definitely not psychosomatic. I wouldn't put it past him. Sounds like the kind of sneaky underhand trick Mycroft would play, the conniving bastard. I wonder if he learnt that deviousness from Sherlock, or vice versa. Either way, it seems to be a dominant Holmes family trait, that's for sure.

I pour the hot water into the cups, then absently stir each tea bag with a spoon before I head for the fridge for the milk. Why I'm making two drinks, I don't know, because I actually have no idea where Sherlock is right now. He isn't shooting walls in the living room, and there's no experiments bubbling away unattended on the kitchen table, so if he hasn't locked himself in his bedroom like a reclusive hermit, then I'm completely clueless as to his whereabouts. It's times like these where I seriously consider having him electronically tagged. Actually, I'm surprised Mycroft hasn't already thought of that. Maybe I should mention it to the elder Holmes brother the next time I see him.

I cradle one of the steaming cups in my hands and bring it up to my lips as I turn away from the counter, then halt abruptly in my tracks as I catch sight of a familiar tall and slender figure suddenly blocking the doorway. He stands there looking as imposing and imperious as ever, his grey-blue eyes almost ethereal in the light streaming through the kitchen window opposite, his dark curls tinted with gold from the morning sun and his white skin practically luminous. Any other time or situation, I definitely would've stopped and admired the view as subtly as I possibly could, but then I notice he's wearing his long coat and scarf, and his mobile phone is clutched loosely in one black leather-gloved hand. All that combined can only mean one thing. _Fucking hell_.

"Lestrade." Sherlock announces, just like I knew he would, holding his phone up and showing me the bright white screen, as though he expects me to be able to read the tiny font from right across the room. "Says he's got a crime scene and a dead body he needs me to take a look at."

"You've got to be kidding me." I groan, my tea now completely forgotten. Typical. Just bloody _typical_. Five minutes past nine in the morning, and Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade decides this is a perfect time to summon us over to a crime scene, post-haste. I'm still in my pyjamas, for crying out loud!

Sherlock's lips curve upwards in amusement at the expression of half-hearted despair on my face, his intense eyes gleaming in a way that's almost feline. He takes two strides into the room with those abnormally long legs of his and swipes the cup straight out my hand with practised ease, raising it to his lips and drinking deeply before I even have chance to splutter in protest.

"Ten minutes, John. I'll be waiting in the cab." He grins devilishly, handing me back the now empty mug before turning and stalking from the room, his long black coat whipping out behind him dramatically as he disappears from view around the corner. I'm still standing there stupidly when the front door slams and his quick, light footsteps make their way down the staircase, but then I swiftly jump into action because I know for a fact that in ten minutes time, that taxi will set off whether I'm in it or not. Either that or Sherlock will come back up here and drag me out semi-dressed. Imagine how incriminating _that_ would look if we pull up at the crime scene with me half-in, half-out of my jeans. Donovan and Anderson would have a field day with that one. They'd never let us live it down, and they're already insufferable enough as it is without adding any more fuel to their fire.

Needless to say, less than the designated time limit later I'm fully clothed and climbing into the cab beside the consulting detective, zipping my trusty old coat up to my chin against the bitterly cold morning air.

"Nine minutes, forty-seven seconds, John. Not bad." Sherlock comments offhandedly, not even bothering to glance my way when I get in, his gaze fixed firmly on his phone as his slender fingers skim across the keys. I purposely ignore that, fastening my seatbelt and settling back into the seat, flashing a brief smile at the cabbie as his curious (and slightly pleading) gaze meets mine in the rear-view mirror. Can't say I blame him, really. After spending ten minutes in a confined space with Sherlock Holmes, it's only natural for you to either want to kill him, or kill yourself. Or, in my case, shag him senseless. Dear God, what's wrong with me?

"Where are we heading?" I ask the infuriatingly brilliant (or brilliantly infuriating, whichever) genius sat next to me, looking so delicious and untouchably perfect in every way that it actually hurts me a little to look at him. It's like a constant reminder that he's close enough to touch, and yet he's always going to be just out of my reach. Screw what Mycroft Holmes says. Because really, does he know Sherlock's unfathomable mind anywhere near as well as he thinks he does? No, he doesn't. He's good, but not _that_ good.

Sherlock's grey-blue irises flicker up to my face from beneath the dark curls that hang down low in front of his eyes, the rich brown colour contrasting amazingly with the paleness of his skin.

"54A Broadwick Street, Soho."

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It takes us about twenty minutes to get there, and after pushing our way through the massive crowd of morbidly curious neighbours and bystanders gathered around outside the police tape barrier, we find Lestrade already there waiting for us. The Detective Inspector straightens up from where he'd been leaning against the doorway and watches the two of us approach, Sherlock striding towards him like he's literally bloody royalty and me not far behind.

"What took you so long?" Lestrade asks when we're close enough, stepping aside for a uniformed police constable to move past him before he turns to head back inside, gesturing for us to follow him into the building.

"We had to wait for John to put some clothes on." Sherlock answers impassively, his sharp eyes taking in every inch of our surroundings as we start up the staircase to the first floor in single-file. I unintentionally wince as he says that, my poor tortured brain immediately turning the innocent statement into something a lot more sexual. Lestrade glances back over his shoulder at me with his eyebrows raised questioningly, and I know for a fact he's thinking the exact same thing. The mortified expression on my face soon sets him straight though.

Over these past six months, I've become fast friends with Greg Lestrade. Granted, at first we weren't really all that keen on each other, but we soon developed a mutual level of respect that then went on to become quite a close friendship between us. We go down to the pub for a beer together every so often, usually for a lengthy moan about Sherlock's general lack of tact and social graces, and swapping life stories. We've both had some pretty crap experiences in our lives, trust me, so there's always something to talk about.

I think Lestrade knows. About my feelings for a certain consulting detective, I mean. It's just the way he looks at us sometimes in a mixture of curiosity, anticipation and frustration, almost as though he's trying to will us on and then being irritated when nothing happens. I've noticed that expression a fair few times, but definitely far more frequently in these last three months. I guess when I realised how I felt for Sherlock, it must've been written all over my face for everyone to see. Well, everyone other than Sherlock himself, obviously. As intelligent and amazing as that man is, he's still so spectacularly ignorant about some of the most basic human instincts and tendencies. In fact, 'spectacularly ignorant' doesn't quite cover it sometimes. Thank heaven for small mercies.

At the top of the staircase, Lestrade directs us to the first door on the landing and steps smartly back so Sherlock and I can enter flat 54A before him. The consulting detective does so without a second's hesitation, his narrowed grey-blue eyes flickering briefly around the room before focusing almost unblinkingly on the lifeless figure spread-eagled on the carpet in front of the fireplace.

The body is unmistakably a woman; blonde and petite, sprawled face-down with her neck twisted at a horrifically unnatural angle, her dark blue eyes glazed and vacant as they stare sightlessly across the room at us. Her hair is pulled back from her thin face in a messy bun, and she's wearing soft grey jogging bottoms, a pale pink long-sleeved t-shirt and a long black cardigan. Even from here, I can clearly see the sheer amount of bruises that cover the greyish skin of her face, neck and hands. It's obvious that this woman either took the mother of all beatings, or put up one hell of a fight for her life.

"Who is she?" Sherlock demands, pulling off his leather gloves and shoving them into his coat pockets. Lestrade passes him a pair of white latex gloves without needing to be asked.

"Her name's Sophie Harrison, according to the landlady." The Detective Inspector answers as Sherlock yanks the smooth latex over his pale fingers and starts towards the victim, easily navigating his way across the room that literally looks like a bombsite right now. It's a complete ravaged mess, with broken furniture, papers and millions of jagged glass shards strewn all over the floor, the wallpaper slashed and peeling away from the walls, pictures ripped brutally from their frames and torn beyond repair. Someone must've been absolutely blind with rage and hatred to do something like this, that's for sure. "She's a teacher at Soho Parish Primary School. Recently divorced, with joint custody of their four-year-old daughter. We're trying to get in contact with the ex-husband as we speak. No immediate family, no other relatives. She was murdered sometime between half ten and eleven last night, found this morning at eight thirty by the landlady, a Mrs Martha Bennett when she came to collect the monthly rent."

Sherlock doesn't respond, but then again, neither of us really expected him to. He's in the zone now; there's no one in the room but him and poor Sophie Harrison, and she's about to tell him every single tiny detail about herself without having to say a word. I feel sorry for her, in a way. Not just because she obviously suffered a great deal before her death, but also because she isn't even allowed the dignity of taking her secrets to the grave with her. Who knows what skeletons she could have locked away in her closet? Only Sherlock Holmes.

He crouches down on his haunches by the victim's side, flicking the edges of his coat back to make room for his long legs to bend. His head is tilted slightly to one side as he examines the body determinedly with his gaze alone, committing everything to memory and cataloguing away anything that can help lead us to her killer. There are a fair few of Lestrade's men in the room with us, photographing the surroundings and waiting to collect evidence, but everyone is deathly silent as Sherlock works, all eyes fixed as intensely on him as his own are fixed on Sophie Harrison.

I'll never get tired of watching Sherlock do what he does best. I see him do this practically every day, but he never ceases to amaze me with his scarily accurate deductions that he seems to pull from thin air. It's phenomenal. He's phenomenal. And there's nothing else to it, really. Sherlock Holmes is one of a kind.

"I hope I didn't interrupt anything this morning." Lestrade says casually, making me jump a little at the unexpected comment. I turn to look at him, and although his head is purposely facing forwards and he isn't looking at me, I notice that there's the tiniest smirk playing at his lips. Oh bloody hell, I should've seen this one coming.

"Not a thing." I reply, careful to keep my voice down. Sherlock is prodding at the body now, his slim fingers meticulously tracing every bruise, noting the differences in size, shape and colour. The last thing I need is for him to overhear us, because that wouldn't go down well, to say the least.

"Damn." Lestrade mutters under his breath, "I wish you two would hurry up and screw each other already. I've got fifty quid riding on it."

Well. How exactly am I supposed to respond to that? I bet the look on my face is absolutely fucking comical right now, with my eyes in serious danger of popping right out of my skull and my mouth gaping open in total shock and disbelief. I actually don't know what I'm more surprised about: the fact that he _said_ that at all, or the fact that he's betting money on it!

Luckily for Lestrade, he's saved from being ruthlessly interrogated by me about this when the consulting detective chooses now to straighten up with a smug smirk on his pale face, his eyes practically gleaming with triumph and exhilaration as he peels off the latex gloves. Immediately, both mine and Lestrade's attentions are drawn straight back to him. Straight back to business.

"She isn't divorced." Sherlock announces as though it's the most obvious thing in the world. As always, confusion is instantaneous, and Lestrade definitely isn't the only one in the room wearing a puzzled frown.

"But the landlady said…"

"She's separated, there's a difference." My flatmate huffs, rolling his eyes at the slow thought processes of the average human being in comparison to his own magnificent mind. "She's still wearing her wedding ring, but it's on a chain around her neck rather than on her finger, meaning that it's still dear to her. If she was divorced, she would've removed the ring altogether as it would've been too painful a reminder of what she's lost. But she kept it with her, hence separated, perhaps expecting they'd get back together again at some point? That could've happened, the signs are all here."

"Signs? What signs?" Lestrade asks, his frown even deeper than before.

"The signs, Greg! Look at the pictures, it's obvious!"

It might be obvious to him, but the rest of us definitely need a bit more prompting before we can come to the same conclusion. I take the initiative and move forwards, my eyes scanning all the damaged photographs that litter the floor in bits and pieces. I can practically feel everyone staring at me, Sherlock's unwavering grey-blue gaze the most intense and penetrating out of the lot of them. After a moment of staring at the faces smiling up at me from the ruined pictures amongst the debris, I think I understand what my flatmate's trying to get at.

"Her husband's in every one." I remark, glancing up a little uncertainly at the consulting detective, not completely sure if that's what he meant. But judging by the wide grin on his face, I guess I hit the nail right on the head with that one.

"Excellent, John!" Sherlock beams proudly at me. Praise from Sherlock Holmes is pretty damn rare, so I can't help but feel ever so slightly smug to be on the receiving end of it. It proves (to myself, more than anyone) that I'm not just some stupid sidekick who follows him around all the time like a lovesick puppy; I actually _do_ have a brain of my own, thanks, and I can bloody well use it.

Lestrade still looks dubious though, and I can't say I blame him, really.

"Now hang on a minute, what does that have to do with anything?" The Detective Inspector demands, now fast losing his patience. Sherlock's grin vanishes and he turns to Lestrade with an impressive swirl of his long coat.

"When your wife divorced you, did you keep her pictures on the wall?"

Lestrade doesn't even try to repress the wince and Sherlock's direct and tactless question, but he answers nonetheless, his expression sour.

"God no. They were the first things to go."

"Exactly! Mr and Mrs Harrison parted in a mutual agreement on good terms, but it wasn't because they fell out of love with each other. Or at least, Sophie still loved her husband despite the separation. That's why she kept the ring on her person and the photos up in plain sight. She _liked_ being reminded of her husband, because she wanted him back. He would've noticed this too, whenever he came around to collect their daughter when it was his turn to take her. Sophie wasn't exactly being subtle. I'd say that in another month or so, they would've been back together, or at least cohabiting again."

"Until someone decided to snap her neck." I say softly, shaking my head at the lifeless corpse by Sherlock's feet with fresh pity. The expression on the consulting detective's face is unreadable for a moment, but then I look back up at him and he holds his latex gloves out towards me in one hand, inclining his head expectantly.

"Your turn, Dr Watson." He says coolly. Without needing any further instruction, I step up to him and take the offered gloves, pulling them on briskly as I crouch down beside Sophie's head just like Sherlock himself had done a few minutes before, my injured leg protesting slightly at the movement.

I examine her quickly, but carefully, determined not to miss anything out. Her bruises stand out even more vividly against her pallid skin now that I'm closer to her, and I can definitely make out the shapes of them. Mostly handprints, especially around her wrists and throat, where her attacker had evidently grabbed hold of her hard enough to leave ugly mottled marks behind. There's a nasty cut on her head too, leaving blood streaked down the left side of her face and pooled on the carpet below. That wasn't deep enough to have been fatal, but it would've undoubtedly immobilised her long enough for the murderer to take her head in their hands and twist.

Sherlock is crouched down next to me, watching me intently with those sharp eyes of his, observing my every move as I lightly press along both sides of Sophie's throat with my fingers, feeling the broken bones of her neck shift beneath the slight pressure.

"Well?" Sherlock asks quietly, his warm breath ghosting over the back of my neck in a way that almost makes a pleasant shiver trail down the length of my spine, but somehow I manage to restrain myself. Barely. A crime scene is no place to get all hot and bothered, especially when you're kneeling over a corpse, not even when it's someone as unbelievably attractive as Sherlock Holmes breathing down your neck.

I don't answer him straight away, instead reaching out to gently take one of Sophie's wrists, studying the bruised skin of her knuckles and torn fingernails that had once been painted with pastel pink nail polish. Defensive wounds. Oh, she fought alright, and she fought viciously. Sophie Harrison had been determined to live, but unfortunately for her, her desperate efforts just weren't good enough to save her. I turn her hand over, checking beneath her nails. Wait a minute. That's… not right. There's no blood at all, no skin cells, which there definitely should be if she'd tried to fend off her attacker as violently as she obviously had. That can only mean one thing. I lift my head and meet Sherlock's inquiring gaze.

"Her fingernails have been cleaned." I tell him, although he'd undoubtedly already noticed that himself earlier. My flatmate nods slowly, his eyes narrowed and calculating.

"There isn't a scrap of the killer's DNA left behind, not a fingerprint or strand of hair anywhere near or on the body." Lestrade adds from across the room.

"Cause of death?" Sherlock prompts me as he leans back a little on his haunches, his elbows resting on his thighs and his fingers poised together beneath his chin in his classic thinking pose. Six months ago, I would've probably said how the cause of death was pretty much obvious, but after spending so much time with the consulting detective, I've quickly come to learn that even the most obvious of things sometimes aren't quite what they appear.

"A cervical fracture. Her spinal cord is completely severed. She would've died almost instantly, if she was lucky."

"Hmm." Sherlock murmurs pensively, casting his gaze briefly over Sophie Harrison's body for a second before he abruptly straightens up once more, the angle of his jaw and that endless column of his flawless white throat looking so sinfully delicious (even more than usual) from my point of view beneath him. Whoa, beneath him, dangerous thoughts, Watson, _very_ dangerous territory there…

I stand up alongside him before my evil brain can even _consider_ adding that view to my latest Sherlock-based fantasies, watching him curiously as he twirls around slowly on his heels, his skilful stare now fixed entirely on the surroundings, surveying the entire ravaged state of the room with one eyebrow raised in contemplation.

"_Oh_." The tall dark-haired man exhales suddenly, joining the invisible dots with blatant ease and excitement, and as per usual leaving the rest of us a million miles behind him. "Organised chaos. Clever, very clever."

I'm sure I'm not the only one who can hear the thinly-veiled admiration in his baritone voice. My flatmate absolutely _loves_ it when he's faced with a smart opponent, someone he can compete with on an intellectual level and who can stimulate that incredible mind of his long enough to keep the boredom at bay. He loves a challenge just as much as he loves proving (repeatedly) that he's the most intelligent man on earth. To be honest, looking at the mess around us, I don't see anything 'clever' about it. But then again, I'm not Sherlock Holmes.

"Doesn't look very organised." Lestrade remarks, voicing my thoughts exactly as he glances around the place with his eyebrows pointedly raised. Sherlock's gaze flicks over to the silver-haired Detective Inspector, impatience and exasperation etched into every chiselled line of his angular face.

"Oh, but it is, and that's precisely how our killer intended it to be. I think it's safe to say that the majority of this mess didn't occur until _after_ Sophie Harrison was murdered." Sherlock responds haughtily, and with that cryptic little observation he turns away once more, not bothered at all that the combined level of confusion and scepticism in the room has just cranked up another couple of notches. He's staring at the mantelpiece now for some unknown reason. I haven't a clue why, but my curiosity is piqued (and that's rarely a good thing, since my irrepressible natural curiosity is something else that could possibly get me killed one day. That is, if Sherlock doesn't get there first, of course) and I step carefully around the late Mrs Harrison's body on the carpet at my feet, edging forwards for a closer look at whatever's caught my flatmate's attention.

In hindsight, I really should've thought twice about moving into Sherlock's peripheral vision, but in my defence, I had absolutely no idea what was going to happen, and even if I _had_ known, I don't think anything in the whole world could've prepared me for it.

Because suddenly, with no warning whatsoever, the entire length of Sherlock's lithe form is pressed against me, the heat of his body seeping through the back of my jumper as every single muscle in my body tenses rigid in sheer shock. He doesn't even give me chance to get over _that_ before he seizes hold of my right wrist in a merciless vice-like grip and yanks my arm behind me, forcing it up my back at such a painful angle that I have to lurch up onto my tiptoes and lean back against his chest to relieve some of the strain. His other arm snakes around my throat, his forearm pressing firmly against my larynx, and my free hand instinctively flies up to grab his slender wrist. Yeah, I think 'shocked' is a bit of an understatement for how I'm feeling right now.

"What the _bloody hell_ do you think you're doing?" I shout, caught somewhere halfway between furious and incredulous as I start to struggle against him, because he might look like a skinny lanky thing, but you wouldn't believe just how deceptively strong he actually is. The fingers of my right hand have already gone numb.

"Relax, John. I'm not trying to assault you." Sherlock responds calmly, his mouth impossibly close to my ear from where his head is beside mine, and I don't have to see his face to know he's rolling his eyes at me. His breathing is hot and heavy against my skin, and any other time I would've been thoroughly enjoying this close contact, but not right now. Fortunately for me, I'm far too pissed off and shocked to be aroused. No doubt I'll remember this later, in intimate detail, with a far more X-rated ending, because that's just how much my brain hates me these days.

"You could've fooled me!" I hiss back at him, but I stop fighting against his hold and fall still with all the grace of a petulant child, scowling at the wall in front of me since I can't see Lestrade or any of his officers now I've got my back to them all.

"Sherlock, are you actually insane?" Lestrade demands from behind us, sounding every bit as stunned as I feel at the moment. The slight flexing of Sherlock's long fingers around my captive wrist is the only sign he gives to show his annoyance, and when he answers his voice is as steady and aloof as it always is.

"There's too much mess here, so much potential evidence. I need to narrow it down and eliminate all the fake possibilities in order to find the facts, and the best way for me to achieve that is to recreate what happened." He explains. His dark silky curls tickle the side of my face when he moves his head to glance back over his shoulder at the Detective Inspector and I can't help but squirm a little at the feeling. "Judging by the pattern of bruising on the victim's wrists, this is how she was initially grabbed, caught unawares from behind by her attacker. This means that either she had no idea that there was an intruder in her flat intent on killing her, or she trusted this person enough to turn her back to them. Now, John, if you would be so kind."

"What do you want me to do?" I ask as I adjust my grip on his arm around my neck, wondering why I always seem to be the one that ends up in these kinds of situations with the self-proclaimed high-functioning sociopath I have the misfortune of sharing a flat with. But would I honestly have it any other way? I think the answer to that one is pretty obvious.

"React."

Well. _That_ was insightful. Thanks a bunch, Sherlock, way to broaden my horizons and all that. But I know he doesn't want _my_ reaction (which would be to stamp on his foot, elbow him in the solar plexus and headbutt him, all at the same time), rather he wants me to act as Sophie Harrison undoubtedly did in this scenario. And going by the state of her hands and fingernails, her reaction was anything but controlled, relying purely on her basic human survival instincts that would be a lot easier for me to replicate if I were actually female.

I sigh in defeat, knowing full well that the only way I'm getting out of this is by playing along, so I shove down whatever masculine pride I have left and thrash back against the taller man, clawing at his coat sleeve with my short fingernails, imagining them to be long sharp pink-painted talons. He must've been caught off guard a little by my swift acquiescence, because he staggers back a step or two, then regains his balance and tightens his forearm around my throat, only holding back the slightest amount so I don't choke. How this looks to the other officers in the room, I actually don't want to know. I can practically feel their eyes on us from here.

Sherlock is scarily silent as I buck and writhe against his grip; I expected him to give us some kind of running commentary throughout this 'recreation', but the only sounds that come from him are the occasional grunts from the effort of holding me steady. Well, he wanted me to react, and he got it alright. This feels like a mixture of torture and indulgence to me, because as much as I'm (secretly) enjoying this close body contact with the consulting detective I've been fantasising about for nearly four months now, I know that when he lets go of me and turns his attention back to the crime scene at hand, it's going to hurt so much. That's the problem with hearts though, isn't it? Far too easy to break.

I've no idea how far my feigned feminine reaction is supposed to take us, but I can feel Sherlock's grip loosening slightly from my violent struggles and I use that to my advantage, yanking the arm around my throat down and throwing my entire bodyweight forwards. By some miracle, it actually works, but by the time my momentum has lurched me straight into the wall opposite and I've spun around as quick as I can to face him again, he's already towering over me, his grey-blue eyes blazing as he grabs me by the throat one-handed and pins me back against the wall beside the mantelpiece. The tiniest thrill of unease trails my spine and for a split second, I actually fear for my life a little. Crazy, I know, but trust me, if you were in this position right now, you'd be bloody terrified too.

"The killer is right-handed," Sherlock says, his voice sounding strangely lower than usual as it echoes slightly around the otherwise silent room. He's announcing his deductions for Lestrade's benefit, but he doesn't take his eyes off me as he speaks, barely blinking as I stare up at him, his fingers riding uncomfortably over the cartilage of my windpipe every time I breathe. "Judging by the pattern of bruising around the victim's throat, her attacker's intention wasn't to strangulate her, but to hold her still. To talk to her, perhaps? But she wouldn't listen, or she didn't like what she heard. Either way, she didn't stop fighting."

He raises an eyebrow at me pointedly as he says that, and I realise that I've stopped struggling, frozen in place against the wall for no real reason other than actually being held there. But to be honest, I've no idea what to do from here. And I really wish Lestrade or one of his officers would say something, because I'm seriously starting to feel like me and Sherlock are the only people in the room right now.

Sherlock moves himself a little closer to me, his free hand clamping my left wrist back against the wall next to my head. His eyes finally flicker away from mine, scanning along the mantelpiece and the floor around our feet for something significant amongst the mess.

"She wasn't physically strong enough. Her attacker overpowered her, but Sophie was both determined and resourceful. Her right hand was free, and in the perfect position to grab a makeshift weapon from the mantelpiece. _There_. The vase. Easily within reach and definitely heavy enough to cause the murderer to release her when she smashed it over their head. There should be blood on the vase shards from the impact, but there isn't; obviously cleaned like the victim's fingernails. Someone has gone to a lot of trouble to ensure they haven't left even the slightest clue to their identity or motives. We're dealing with a very careful killer, Lestrade, one who is unlikely to make any mistakes should they choose to kill again."

I'm wondering whether or not Sherlock expects me to act this latest bit out, but he looks like he's far away in his thoughts now, that magnificent brain of his piecing everything together faster than should be humanly possible. He's still got me by the throat though, which is pretty disconcerting, I must admit, but I'm nowhere near stupid enough to interrupt him mid-flow. I'm not suicidal, thank you very much.

"And are they likely to kill again?" Lestrade asks. Sherlock's eyebrows furrow together slightly, his intense gaze once again trailing along the mantelpiece. Trapped here like this, there's nothing I can do but stare at his pale face, taking in every stunning inch of this brilliant man's features. Not a wise move on my part, since I know only too damn well the consequences, but I honestly can't help myself. I might not get another chance as good as this one, you know? Better make the most of it while it lasts.

"I doubt it." The consulting detective answers confidently, "This murder was spontaneous, yet thoroughly controlled. Serial killers don't usually take this much care with what they leave behind. Now, after hitting her attacker with the vase, the victim would've tried to run, but they recovered quicker than she'd expected. She was punched to the floor, where the left side of her head then collided with the corner of the hearth there when she landed. Concussion was immediate, and all the killer had to do then was to roll her over onto her stomach, pin her to the floor with a knee pressed into the small of her back, and break her neck from behind. Simple and effective. Sophie Harrison never stood a chance."

"That didn't stop her trying, though." I say, finding my voice at long last. Sherlock's head jerks swiftly back to face mine so fast that he almost gives himself whiplash, his piercing grey-blue eyes fixing straight on my own tawny gaze. He looks a little surprised, to be honest, as though he's only just remembered that he's still holding me captive against this wall with both hands.

"Of course not." Sherlock replies, releasing me abruptly and stepping smartly back, turning away to study Sophie's corpse some more. Yeah, I was right earlier. It does hurt like hell. More so than I expected, actually. _You're going soft, Watson._ "It's basic human nature to fight back, no matter how futile the struggle might be."

I catch sight of Lestrade as I straighten up and smooth down the front of my jumper with hands that I refuse to believe are shaking. His expression is both pitying and understanding, and that combined with Sherlock's obvious dismissal strikes me a little bit deeper than usual. I've got to get out of here. There's only so much of this I can take right now.

"Are we done here?" I ask, directing the question at both Sherlock and Lestrade, but resolutely keeping my gaze anywhere but on either of them.

"Almost." My flatmate responds absently, whipping his magnifier out of his coat pocket and crouching down once again to take one final look over the body. I nod firmly to myself, feigning nonchalance as I dig my hands into my pockets and make for the doorway.

"Right. Ok. I'll go flag us a cab, then."

Lestrade opens his mouth to say something as I draw closer, but I glance up at him and shake my head once, my body language practically screaming for him to just leave it. Thank God he doesn't push it, and he steps aside to let me pass without a word, but the firm set of his jaw tells me that we'll undoubtedly be talking about this sometime in the near future, probably during our next pub visit or something.

I walk briskly past him without looking back, making my way down the staircase to the ground floor. Donovan and Anderson pass me halfway, and although they both stare after me curiously, they don't say anything. I wonder if I actually look as bad as I feel at the moment.

With a nod of acknowledgement and a small smile, I sidestep a couple of officers by the front door and step out into the late morning sunshine, pausing on the doorstep only to crane my head and look up at the first floor window of 54A Broadwick Street. Why? I've no idea. It's not like he's going to be standing there watching me, is it? Sometimes I wish Sherlock Holmes wasn't quite so socially ignorant. It would make things so much easier.

"Whoa, careful!" Someone cries out, tearing me back from my thoughts, and that's the only warning I get literally a second before I walk straight into something solid and bright yellow. A surprised "_oof_" leaves my lips as I collide and stagger back, and a pair of warm strong hands shoot out to grab hold of the tops of my arms, steadying me on my feet before I can land gracelessly on my backside on the pavement.

"Hey, you ok?" My saviour asks, his voice as warm and strong as his hands.

"Yeah, I'm fine. I'm sorry, I should've been looking where I was…" I trail off there, my mouth practically dropping open in complete shock and horror as I lift my head to look this stranger in the face. _Because there's just no way on this Earth that my luck can possibly be that bad._

He's tall and lean, dressed in a police constable uniform complete with a high-vis vest, and a hat pulled down low over his tousled light brown hair. A thin layer of stubble shadows his angular jaw, and a pair of thin rectangular black frames magnify his earthy green eyes. He's smiling slightly, one side of his mouth quirking up mischievously for a second before he lets go of me and tips his hat congenially towards me.

"Nah, it's fine. I'm Nathan, by the way. PC Nathan Brookes."

He holds his hand out, and I shake it numbly, knowing that the expression on my face is something akin to a deer caught in a truck's headlights.

"John Watson." I somehow manage to reply, my voice little more than a strangled croak in my throat.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, John." Nathan grins, and there's absolutely no mistaking that gleam in his mossy eyes.

Mycroft Holmes... God, I hate you.

* * *

**So yeah, Nathan won on the name vote and there he is :)**

**So what did you think? You still like it? As the lovely Elvendork-Infinity pointed out, I've heaped a load of tension on poor John's shoulders, but don't worry, it's Sherlock's turn next hehe XD**

**Sorry it took so long for me to get this up here, hopefully I'll be able to update a bit quicker next time.**

**Review for me? I'll love you forever! ^^**


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